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Larry Wilson
Another sad note for our class. Esther Zartman Slone passed away. Enclosed is her obituary. Also, Marian Spivey submitted her obituary to the "In Memory" section. May Esther rest in peace and may her family be comforted.
Newark - A funeral service celebrating the life of Esther E. (Zartman) Slone, age 68, of Newark will be held at 11 a.m. on Friday, September 14, at The Newark Chapel of Henderson-Van Atta-Stickle Funeral & Cremation Service.
Esther passed away Tuesday, September 11, 2018 at Altercare South of Newark. She was born December 15, 1949 in Newark, Ohio to the late Louis Zartman and Myrtle (McCoy) Dressler.
Esther was a graduate with the class of 1968 from Newark High School. Esther worked at the Children's Home for several years in the housekeeping department. She also was a receptionist at A.R.K. helping those with mental disabilities. Many people may remember Esther from her tenure at Wendy's Restaurant in downtown Newark where she was a crew member. Esther enjoyed spending time with her family, especially her grandson, Issac. She was a loving, kind, no nonsense mother who was devoted and provided for her family.
She is survived by her two children, Dixie Jo Bailey and Bryan (Amanda Smith) Slone; the father of her children, Ronald Slone; grandson, Issac Beach and his mother, Amber Beech; a sister, Mary Dressler and many nieces and nephews.
In addition to her parents, she is preceded in death by her son-in-law, Ronald Bailey; and two brothers, Jeff Zartman and Larry Zartman.
Family and friends may call two hours prior to the service on Friday, September 14, from 9-11 a.m. at The Newark Chapel of Henderson-Van Atta-Stickle Funeral & Cremation Service, 59 North Fifth Street, Newark.
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Robert A. "Rocky" Sensabaugh
I have a pretty good Class of '68 "small world" story . . . . Yesterday, Emily and I went to a small art institute on Broome Street in the Nolita (North of Little Italy, what's left of it) area of Manhattan. We sat on a bench in the entry hallway awaiting the arrival of some friends. As the entry to the institute was not well-marked, I worried that they might wander by, so after a bit I walked over to the glass door to scrutinize the few passers-by on this frigid Saturday morning, wrapped up against the chill. After a few minutes, one heavily bundled gent glanced at me while walking past and stopped. He stared for a few seconds and then turned to call to someone farther along the street and out of my sight. He reached for the door, which I opened, and asked, "Are you Roger McDonald?" "Yes," I replied, "but how did you know?" Then he whipped off his woolen cap, loosened his thick scarf, and proclaimed "I'm Jeff Danford!" I was stunned; this was not Times Square. When his party returned to the institute, Jeff identified me to his family, they all met Emily, and Jeff then proceeded to tell his grandkids some whoppers about my prowess in Little League. I'm ashamed to say I let him. We tried to provide some guidance to the few remaining Italian restaurants in the area, especially where there might be some historical significance like Joey Gallo's bloody demise in Umberto's Clam House. So, the next time anyone is in the Big Apple, glance in the doorways and you might be surprised! It was, all told, a sweet '68 moment . . . . (Perhaps someone else has a similar "small world" story to share? I vaguely recall an amazing one related by Malcolm Montgomery long ago that involved a phone call in the Northwest, but the details have dimmed with time and my woeful memory.)
